


Death to Normalcy

by tangerine (arte)



Category: Supernatural, Supernatural Fandom, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Crack, Crossover, Does this count as crossover?, Gen, Seriously where is my life going
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-21 00:22:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4807814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arte/pseuds/tangerine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Come watch Scout and Misha - or as the media likes to call them, the Confoundingly Evil Duo- wreck havok to the idea of normalcy!</p><p>The Team Free Will and other superheroes would be singing "Why Must U Do This" in the background.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What's in a Name

**Author's Note:**

> http://consulting-cannibal.tumblr.com/post/128383551646/i-had-a-dream-you-and-misha-were-both-supervillans#notes
> 
> This post was the beginning of my downfall. Ever since seeing this post, my brain kept making up ridiculous supervillain scenarios and I had to wtite them all down somewhere. You can see a small glimpse of my struggle here: http://consulting-cannibal.tumblr.com/post/128650461726/1-u-shouldnt-have-encouraged-me-here-have-a#notes
> 
> Anyway, I'll post series of one-shots related to this superhero au whenever ideas hit me. That means that the story won't be told in a linear way. Anyway, let's have fun!

Illegal graffiti takes a whole new meaning when the culprit is a tentacle monster with an artistic aspiration. 

Really, people should learn to make a better report. Rob and Rich came here expecting a monster destroying buildings and terrorizing people, but this one is just happily attached to a skyscrapper, doodling unspeakable things on the walls. 

Rich supposes that for some people, this is enough to warrant a call to have this unasked for redecorator removed, but the way he sees it, that's asking too much of superheroes.

Ever carelessly nudged an artist into drawing a thick, irreversible line across their almost finished work? When it was the only copy of their big project? 

Rich had and Rich remembers. 

He isn't going anywhere that thing until its unholy masterpiece is done.

Frankly, he'd like nothing more than to fly back home and wash his hands off of this, but he can't leave without Rob. 

Rob is absorbed in a deep and inspiring conversation with the villains.

"You can't do that," he says in that stressed yet insistent way of his. "You're villains. You can't just change your villain names all willy-nilly. And especially not into Super Scout and Mighty Misha."

"Why not?" Scout pouts. "Are we not allowed to use cool alliteration?"

"No, alliteration is cool. It's the adjectives. Super and Mighty are hero things." 

Scout narrows her eyes. "This is the tyranny of capitalism, isn't it. Who among you have bought the right to use those words?"

"No, no," Rob squicks, startled at the accusation. Rich feels a vague sense of obligation that he should be helping the guy out, but from the look of it, the girl is just fucking with Rob to see just how high his voice can go. Rich would know. That's his on going experiment, too. 

"It's just, you know, uh," Rob's expression brightens at last. "The media! Yeah, how would the media know that you're the same villain team with that kind of name?" 

Scout and Misha look at each other. Misha shrugs. "Recognition is only a problem for the world dominating types," he pauses. "Well, not that I don't want to rule the world, but I digress. The point is, the most appealing factor to being a villain is that we can do anything we want, and that includes getting to call ourselves with lame alliteration instead of regular nouns with pretentious use of _the_."

"Hey!" protests Rob, aka _The Prophet_ , the sidekick to _The Archangel_. He looks back at Rich for support, but Rich doesn't know what the guy wants from him. It's not like Rob wouldn't change his name in a heart beat if it was within his power to do so. Rich clearly remembers their long and repeated conversations.

 

("I don't understand, Rich, why are they calling me the Prophet?"

"I don't know, Robbie, 'cause these people needed something to call you and you didn't bother to name yourself?"

"But I wanted to remain nameless! That's precisely why I left that blank space."

"Well, I'm afraid that ship has sailed. Hero names are super difficult to change for some reason. Ask Beast Boy. Dude's pushing forty and he's yet to be upgraded to Beast Man."

"At least he has a relevant name! I'm not even a prophet. The media doesn't really know what my power is. Why did they decide to call me the Prophet?"

"Eh, maybe to make a set? You know, since I'm a winged guy named the Archangel."

"But to name me the Prophet! That creates certain expectation, Rich. Like, people would expect me to knows things when I don't even know today's weather. I'm just a guy who can breathe under water. I can't be the Prophet!"

"Look at the bright side, Robbie. At least it sounds far more impressive than Can Breathe Underwater Man. It can work as a bluff. It's a good thing, Rob."

"But doesn't it sounds too uppity for a sidekick? I don't aspire for greatness. I like being a sidekick."

"Rob, let me bottom line it for you. No one cares about the sidekick."

"That's, that's the most reassuringly dismissive thing I've ever heard, Rich."

"Anytime, man.")

 

"Well, that's not fair," Rob concludes, unable to go on with his argument anymore. 

Rich pats him on the back. "Wanna go drinking?" 

"Yeah," Rob nods, drooping. Then as he raises his head, he abruptly realizes where he is as and why they are there. "Wait, no, we've got- the Monster!" 

Rich turns at Rob's exclamation, and holy shit, that unholy masterpiece is almost done. People would need some serious brain bleach tonight.

"MY BABY!" Rich hears Scout shout in joy. "Oh my god, he's so talented. Isn't he cute? My precious Elphie!" 

Well, cute is a highly subjective term. Rich squints and tries to see from this new viewpoint. 

The creature is about five-story tall and looks like a mixture of an elephant and an octopus. Its tentacles are all uniform pink, as if they had been painted on. They look squishy and fluffy rather than slimy and gross, so Rich guesses there's a point for that. 

Its face, however, oh its face. Its head looks like it had been intended to look like a cute, cartoonish gray elephant, but someone had decided to shade it all too hell and pour their soul into drawing all the hairs and wrinkles. In short, it looks like Dumbo's bitter old cousin who had lived a rough life of citarette and booze but turned to the life of an artist in the last second. 

To each their own, he guesses. But as he is assessing the cuteness of Elphie, it occurs to him that he is focusing on the entirely wrong thing.

"I gotta ask," Rich says, still squinting. "How did you get it up there without destroying half the city? Did you pull it out of thin air? I'm asking just to be professional." 

Rich knows that he's asked the correct question because he can see Rob panicking from the corner of his eyes. Yes, the prospect of dealing with Elphie is indeed terrifying. Rob would know as a fellow artist. 

"Crap, what do we do, Rich?" Rob blurts. "It won't stay up there forever. What if it tries to jump down?" He clutches at his head, looking like he's on the verge of aneurysm. "Why are we talking about this now, Rich? Why didn't we immediatley focus on it, Rich?" 

Rich opens his mouth to say, 'Well, some of us wanted to write a master's thesis on the political importance of villain name,' but Misha beats him to it. "Relax," he says, and the incredible thing is, Rob actually subsides. Once Rob is in the state to listen he continues to say, "Elphie's only staying long enough to finish his drawing. He would go away on his own"

"Really?" Rob asks hopefully.

"Yeah," Scout reassures. "And he's a softie, really. Won't hurt peeps needlessly."

Rich watches all of this happening with one brow raised, absently scratching the side of his beard. He was just thinking to himself that things couldn't get any weirder, but the universe seemes determined to prove him wrong. 

Perhaps as a compensation for his easily intimidated personality, Rob is highly sensitive to people who are ready to prey on him. The fact that he's calm in their presence is nothing short of astounding.

Come to think of it, most of what he heard of them sounded more fun than harmful. Well, Naomi hates them with cool passion, but Rob and Rich are not on her list of favorite people, either. 

Rich contemplates for a moment longer, then says, "Come on, Rob. Let's go home."

Rob's eyes dart between him and Elphie. "But-" 

Rich claps him on the shoulder. "You know as well as I do that trying to forcefully remove him would cause more harm than now. Let's leave it at one defaced building, yeah?"

Rob looks back at Scout and Misha, and although their innocent smile is not really helpful in this situation, he nods at last. 

Rich unfurls his wings and grabs onto Rob tightly. "Don't prove me wrong, guys," he says and shoots up. Scout and Misha waves at them cheerfully until they're out of their sight.

Elphie turns just in time to see golden wings disappearing into the sunset. Struck with new inspiration, it wiggles its tentacles happily.


	2. Origin Story I

Some people say 'I love you' only sparingly because they don't want the words to lose their meaning. 

Similarly, Cas tries to ration out saying 'What the fuck' because he doesn't want his life to be consisted of endless exclamation of wtf. 

As such, he barely reacts when he enters his room and finds Misha on his bed, wearing a faked moustache and toying with a glitter bomb. Cas does close his eyes briefly, but that's because of sunlight reflected on the golden crown resting on Misha's belly and not because of his need to pray for strength. As Misha's twin, this is pretty much what he had been dealing with all his life.

Determined to discourage Misha through his indifference, Cas wordlessly walks to his desk and sits down. He opens his laptop to finish writing his essay. 

For ten minutes, Misha is dreadfully silent. Cas keeps on typing. Cas even opens a new file to write whatever gibberish that comes into his mind because it feels like a defeat to let up typing and let Misha's silence fill in the empty space. 

However, his resolve crumbles when Misha opens his mouth and says, "So Cas, I've been thinking."

"Oh, no," is pretty much involuntary reaction on Cas's part.

"Hey," Misha feigns hurt look on his face. "At least listen before you say that."

"Misha," Cas says slowly. "The last time you uttered those exact phrase to me, you went out and convinced some freshmen that you had been divided into two a la _The Enemy Within_ style, and made them give me a heartfelt speech about how I should accept you back because we need both good and evil within us to live a balanced life."

"You're complaining for no reason, " Misha has the audacity to roll his eyes. "It's not like I told them to hunt you down. You just had to talk to them for half an hour."

"Half an hour talking to terrified freshmen," Cas corrects him emphatically. "And imagine my surprise when they got even more terrified after I told them that you were actually my twin and therefore cannot be tempered with my goodness."

"Ooh, did you get any pictures?" Misha asks, intrigued. 

Cas crosses his arms.

"Just checking," Misha says, then paused thoughtfully. "I should totally commission a camera that looks like a watch. Or a badge."

"Misha, please remember our one rule," Cas warns. 

"Yeah, I know, plausible deniability," Misha says, putting on the crown and flopping on to his stomach. "But what should I do when it condradicts with our one condition?" 

The one condition to the rule is _Warn me if it looks like it might give me a heart attack, you asshole,_ added when their daring bicycle ride almost got them killed. Although with Misha's arbitrary standard for danger - hitch hiking to infiltrate a vilain lair was okay but planning to contact alines somehow warrented warning - this condition has rarely helped Cas to gauge the situation.

Cas rubs his forehead. "I'm going to regret asking this, but what have you been thinking, Misha?"

"Cas," Misha says with a proud grin. "I'm gonna be a villain." 

Cas squints. "You?" He says, which admittedly isn't a good response since Misha might take it for a challenge. So he hastily tacks on, "Do you need money?"

"No," Misha looks baffled. "Why do you think that?" 

Cas sighs. Of course, that'd have been too good to be true. Misha never obsessed about money anyway. "Because if that's the case, we can start our negotiation."

"I don't think you can negotiate me out of this one."

That doesn't mean Cas won't try. But first, he needs to ask, "So why do you want to be a villain?"

"Well," Misha drawls. "I'd like to say that the moment I realized my true calling was nothing short of magical. You see, Timmy got this good rant going on about how stupid it was for villains to aim for world domination when nobody ever succeeded anyway-"

"Who's Timmy?" Cas cuts in. 

Misha blinks. "That's such a deep and philosophical question, Cas." 

"Misha," Cas says with don't fuck with me voice. "Who the hell is Timmy and why is he important enough for you to prove him wrong."

Misha tips his crown. "You've underestimated me, Cas. I can totally go out of my way to prove that a complete stranger is wrong."

"Yes, I'm aware of that," Cas says drily. "But I was hoping your career choice would be grounded on a more solid basis than a random guy's random opinion."

"Of course it is, Cas. Are you doubting my skills and abilities to be the overlord?"

Cas dearly hopes that the Overlord won't be Misha's choice of villain name. "What skills and abilities?" He asks.

Misha winks. "That'd be my business secret," he says, and rolls off the bed to stand up with a flourish, wielding the glitter bomb like a twirly road. "Anyway, that was my 24h notice. Hope that helped. Toodles!"

With that, Misha sets off the bomb, and disappears into thin air before sparkly shits can actually hit him.

Cas stares at his bed and a Tinkerbell massacre site it has become, and contemplates the unfairness of the world where Misha is gifted with teleporting ability and Cas is left with unfinished essay.

Spitefully, Cas hoards up his 'What the fuck' and promises himself to never give it to Misha.


	3. Origin Story II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The girl who sits next to me has a bookstand with SCOUT written in the middle of it. I think this is a sign of some sort.

The universe is usually good at keeping its shit together. However it's only- well, it's not human per se, but there are times when it's sense of humor runs so high that it feels like it might burst, itching to tweak the laws of physics just the tiniest bit because it _knows_ that things would become hilarious if it did.

Which means that basically, super powered people are maniacal 3 a.m. postings of the universe which keeps it from exploding into million untold jokes. 

And today, the universe thought _Oh well, what can you do._

-

There's a tiny man on her desk.

If she hadn't been so distracted by the fact that her freaking three hours of work had just disappeared from the screen, Scout would've noticed this sooner. But as it was, she'd been too busy going through all kind of creative swear words because no, she'd definitely clicked on that damn save button three times before she went to get some water. It can't do this to her.

As such, she only finds him after nearly squashing him with her mug. They trade a long, awkward stare, the tiny man mixing it up with a few side-eyed glances at the cup, and Scout focused on the tiny man's too well defined biceps. 

She's not usually this blatant, but she can't help it because those biceps look incredibly familiar, not like _I may or may not have used you as reference_ familiar but more like _I definitely spent better part of three hours shading the veins in your arms like stopping Apocalypse depended on it_ familiar. 

Faced with the glory that is the Comic John Watson with Uncomfortably Bulging Biceps incarnate, Scout first decides to check it's not dehydration messing with her head.

When John is still there even after she has drained down the whole cup, she carefully sets it aside (he's looking at it like it's Moriarty's head) and mutters, "Of course I have to miss him crawling out of the screen. For god's sake, I was gone for less than 5 minutes. Where are cctvs when you need one?"

One good thing about a society filled with garden variety super powers ("So what's your power?" "I can turn wine into mango juice.") is that it cuts time for existential crisis and allows people to ask the real question.

"Sorry about that," Scout says, noticing John still giving the mug a baleful look. "Do you take chocolate for an apology gift?"

John perks up. She gives him a kisses chocolate that has been lying around the desk and watches him curl around it possessively. Bribery successful, she asks, "Hey, can I ask you something? 'Cause I got lots of questions right now."

John points at his mouth. Scout at first thought this meant _I'm still eating, you heathen,_ then realizes, "You can't speak?" 

A nod.

"Can you write, then?"

John glances at the pen that would come up to his chest, and his expression reads- _I could, but why should I bother?_

Scout has seen that look so many times around cats that she lets him be after that. 

She sits down on the chair and looks at the blank page, feeling a bit forlorn because she had been thinking while pouring water that adding in little moustache on the Uncomfortably Shaded John would raise it to the state of perfection. She doodles dancing mustaches in the hope that they might come to life as well, but they don't. 

In the meanwhile, John has polished off the chocolate and nimbly climbed down from the desk. Scout turns to find the empty space where John used to be, then finds him again on the floor, tugging out the book on the bottom shelf. 

She watches his progression, curious as to what he's planning. John, noticing her stare, unnecessarily lifts the book over his head. 

"Aw," Scout says, reminded of a dead mouse a cat had once presented to her. It definitely feels like a deja-vu when he trots across the room to lay the book down gently on the floor. 

She bends down to pick it up, but gets stopped by John's hissing. Okay, it's not for her. She backs off, confused, and keeps watching. 

Five minutes in, it occurs to her that observing a tiny man building a vaguely stair like construction with books could become more fun with someone to talk to. 

"Would he be interested in playing with a funko doll?" Misha says, after having been summoned. 

"Nah, he's really focused on piling up the books," Scout says. "Ooh, look at him flexing his arms."

Originally, Scout and Misha didn't plan to talk about John as if he wasn't even there, but as the little guy got upset when they were on topics unrelated to him, they decided to get themselves comfortable on the floor and get on with the commentary. 

"I want that shirt," Misha says a moment later, pointing at John's black sleeveless shirt that says _I don't understand_ in the front and _I still don't understand_ in the back. "My minions can be a horde of confusion with that thing." 

"That's a nice image," Scout muses. "But I want one of them to wear a neon yellow shirt with agressive _**42**_ written on it like a beacon of light."

Misha's smile is wide. "I like the way you think."

"Me too," Scout says. "You know, I think I can rock this villain thing."

"I'm willing to part with my crown if you decide to work with me."

They hear a little stomping sound, which cuts into their negotiation. Clearly, they're not paying enough attention. They go back to their job as narrators and leave the harrowing business deals for later.

They spend the next few hours chatting, taking pictures, and lifting John on their palms when he needs to put the books on higher position.

It turns out that John was building an egloo. Or, a squiggly dome with hole in the middle. Whatever it is, he looks mighty pleased with himself as he peaks up from his creation. He basks in the claps and flashing cameras from his adoring fans for a few minutes, then demands to be lifted up again.

This time, he wants to go to the desk. He hops down, notes that the computer is turned off, and points at it insistently. Getting an inkling of what he's planning to, Scout turns on the computer and opens the photoshop. 

John smiles and gives them a little wave. 

And together, Misha and Scout stare, awe struck, as John jumps into the screen. The screen seems to ripple for a second, then there he is back on the photoshop, the words _I don't understand_ written on his shirt accentuated by his biceps.

"So, what do we do now?" Misha asks. 

"Well," Scout says, rubbing her hands like old villains do in the movies. "We've got some experiment to do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How many books do you need to make an egloo out of them. We shall never know.


	4. 42

"Naomi dear, you need to relax a bit."

"I _am_ relaxed, Rowena." 

"Ah, yes, how could I have forgotten. Relaxed people speak with their teeth clenched all the time."

"Yes, in fact they do."

"I understand, it's very disheartening to see your employees, ah- indulging in the mayhem caused by villains rather than taking immediate action to rectify it."

"They are shame to this country. Their job is to bring the villains into justice and crush their ideas from spreading. If I hear one more person saying that they just have to find the answer to the universe -"

"Well, 42 is a marvelous number." 

"What did you just say?"

"Nothing, my dear. Only that you're absolutely right. Now what do you say to going to that new dessert cafe?"

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe I wrote this. At least this story won't be clustering my brain anymore >_>


End file.
